


Dear Soldier,

by iridaceae



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe, Army!John, Eventual Romance, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Past Drug Use, Penpal!AU, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-25 13:47:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2623994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iridaceae/pseuds/iridaceae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is almost out of rehab. But after an especially rough day at Scotland Yard, his cravings for cocaine rear their ugly heads. Somehow, as a distraction, he ends up writing a letter to a random soldier in Afghanistan. </p>
<p>John Watson is nearing the end of his second tour in Afghanistan. While his regiment is taking a rest stop at a base, he receives mail from a self-proclaimed consulting detective. </p>
<p>As they learn more about each other through their letters, an unexpected friendship forms between the two men, and it eventually blooms into something more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thank You for Your Service

**Author's Note:**

> Not Brit-picked. Sorry.

_I’m a high-functioning sociopath. I don’t_ do _emotions._

Sherlock slammed his fist against the door he had just closed behind him. Unwanted emotions roiled inside of him, leaving him panting and wanting to puke. Worst of all, they left him wanting to cry. Sherlock could feel his eyes film over with tears, threatening to coalesce into drops, and he wanted to throw himself against the wall until they disappeared. Or better yet, until he passed out from pain and exhaustion so that when he woke up, he was calm enough to delete everything.

                _Ungrateful little shits, the lot of them,_ thought Sherlock, still leaning on the door. He had just solved a case that had stumped Scotland Yard for weeks in just a day. Lestrade had been pleased with Sherlock, but disappointed with his underlings for not being able to actually get their brains straight and find any clues. A disappointed Lestrade was not a nice Lestrade, and the general constables and sergeants weren’t happy. Unable to deal with Lestrade’s dissatisfaction with their performance, many of them directed their resulting negative emotions at Sherlock. Usually, the consulting detective was able to ignore their muttered comments and insults, letting them roll off him like water droplets on a waxed surface. However, this time, one of them managed to pierce his armor.

                _“Who does he think he is, waltzing in here as if he, a worthless druggie, is better than us law enforcement? Let’s face the truth, no one likes him, and no one ever will. Lestrade only puts up with him to use him as his personal sniffer-dog and puzzle-solver. He should go back on the streets where belongs. That way, he won’t be such a nuisance.”_

                They didn’t know how hard Sherlock worked to get clean, denying his body what it craved, allowing it to be ripped apart with want—all for the sake of being able to solve cases. They didn’t know how Lestrade had given Sherlock an ultimatum—get rehab or get out—but didn’t expect Sherlock to actually succeed. They didn’t know how fucked up it was for the brain to work at top speeds twenty four-seven; sometimes, Sherlock just wanted it all to stop, stop, STOP.

                It wasn’t until then that Sherlock noticed the tremors, the shaking, the sweat beading on his forehead, on his palms, under his collar. The raging _want_ in his blood. His mind screamed to be silenced. With a roar that would definitely bother the neighbors (not that Sherlock cared), the man lunged around the flat, ripping apart stacks of paper, bookshelves, and cabinets. _Fuck the Scotland Yard and rehab and stupid Mycroft who can’t mind his own damn business; I need my fix, and NOW._

                Though the logical part of Sherlock’s mind was pushed aside for the addict part to reign, that didn’t mean the logical part wasn’t there. It was yelling at the addict to stand down, pleading for Sherlock to distract himself and not rip away the enormous progress he had made in the last several months.

Suddenly, he came across a box of nicotine patches. Sherlock ripped it open and slapped several patches onto his arm. They were not exactly what he wanted, but they would do. Finally, his cravings subsided just enough to allow for him to calm down a notch, even if only for a minute. Sherlock finally stopped trashing the room and stood up to take in the damage done to his flat. Drawers were ripped out of their slots, books were pulled out of their shelves, and papers littered the floor. A small flyer fluttered down in front of Sherlock’s feet, the last remnant of the whirlwind. It went like this:

LETTERS TO SOLDIERS

Thank you for your brave fight for Queen and country! Show your support and gratitude by mailing letters to the following address:

75839109, Major James Sholto

Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers

Operation Herrick

BFPO 758

 

Major Sholto will distribute your letters to the brave men and women so that they can feel home away from home.

 

                Sherlock didn’t even know how this flyer ended up in his apartment and where it came from. But as he wasn’t exactly in his right mind, he wasn’t going to complain about this sudden distraction. Maybe mailing a soldier, though dull as it sounded, would help take a further edge off of his cravings. Quickly, he whipped out a pen and a slightly wrinkled piece of parchment from the piles on the floor, sat down, and wrote.

_Dear soldier,_

_My name is Sherlock Holmes, the world’s first and only consulting detective. I don’t know how or why I’m writing this. Do I have to thank you for your service? Thank you for your service to Queen and country. Boring, dull. Everyone writes that, but do they mean it? When I watch politicians on telly I can see the lip-service, the false-patriotism. Not that it’s all completely faked, but I can see the image many put up._

_Changing topics. As I said in the previous paragraph, I don’t know how or why I’m writing this. I saw a flyer in my flat. I don’t know how it got there. I don’t know if I should tell you how I found it…oh screw it, you probably won’t even find me if you get back—IF. There’s always a chance you won’t make it. If I make you angry, I’m sorry, but I’m just stating the obvious._

_I’m a recovering drug addict, almost done with rehab. I only agreed to it because a detective inspector at Scotland Yard told me that was the only way he would allow me to work on any cases. What he doesn’t understand—what no one understands—is that my brain is too chaotic and works too fast for everyone else to follow. I notice details no one else notices. I can spot a needle in a haystack while everyone else is too caught up in freaking about the impossibility of finding it. But sometimes it gets too much. I took drugs to help my mind work more efficiently, more ruthlessly, more focused. Sometimes, I took drugs just to shut it up. I am a high-functioning sociopath; I don’t need to know how everyone_ feels _about me. After all, emotions are just chemical defects found in the losing side. Cases don’t need to be solved with arse-kissing and trite social niceties._

_That’s what I tell myself, and that’s what I’ve learnt in my life._

_I create an armor of logic and ice around me, and it works. Almost all the time. As much as I loathe to admit it, sometimes an insult will worm its way in, an echo of the taunts from my lesser peers in primary school and uni. The mocking voices still follow me into adulthood. For example, today I solved a major case: a triple-homicide cleverly disguised as suicide. I was able to find the clues and connect the dots. The detective inspector was pleased, but everyone else wasn’t. And because they have no brain to understand that they need to get their heads out of their asses, my cravings have been triggered and I’m spilling my ‘non-existent’ heart to some stranger who will probably die in gunfire and has no care about my sob story. Fuck. What am I even doing?_

_But I’m surprised. It feels as if a weight has been lifted off my shoulders, even though that saying is extremely clichéd. I suppose I must thank you, regardless of what you think of me. In a sea of empty thanks for your service to Queen and country, I hope you find this one genuine, as I rarely thank anyone.  Thank you for using you as a sounding board, for preventing me from relapsing. Thank you for your service._

_Sincerely,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

              Sherlock quickly found an envelope, scribbled the address and sender information on it, tacked on some random stamps, and dropped it in the letter box outside his door while he still had the nerve. Then he stalked back inside, not caring about the books and papers he tread on, and proceeded to pass out on the sofa.


	2. A Random Stranger with the Weirdest Name

             “Watson!” Major James Sholto’s voice rang out from the other side of John’s door. Presently, the regiment was awaiting new instructions and restocking supplies; their next mission wasn’t until two days later.

             John poked his head out into the hallway. “What is it, Jim?”

             Sholto barked out a laugh. “You’re lucky no one else is in the hallway right now; I could get you punished for disrespecting a commanding officer.” John just grinned at his friend and superior. “Anyways, here’s a letter for you, from home.”

             John frowned. “Is it from family? I thought Mum and her husband are still refusing to talk to their son because he enlisted, and Harry is still too drunk to even send out a letter.”

             “Ah, yes, your fucked-up family. Nah, it’s not from them. Actually, you’re in luck; these are from the good citizens who just want to send support and gratitude for protecting them. You get a random one.”

             The medical doctor just shrugged and took the envelope. He was bored, anyway. John said goodbye to Sholto and went back into his sleeping quarters to read the letter.

_“Dear soldier, My name is Sherlock Holmes, the world’s first and only consulting detective.”_

             Well, that was already interesting. A consulting detective? And the world’s first and only one? A bit conceited for the guy, but okay. At least this letter wasn’t from another five-year-old kid whose scrawl was nonsensical and unreadable, despite supposedly good intentions.

             As John continued to read through the letter, he felt annoyed, then angry, then empathetic, then understanding, then touched. He was able to help a recovering addict resist relapse. It was surprising how a thank-you-for-your-service letter could make him feel so many different emotions. The sender was, no doubt, a prick. But he wasn’t actually a bad guy.

_Sherlock Holmes, hmm?_

              John decided that this letter was worth replying, unlike the vapid ones written by three-year-olds who didn’t understand what they were writing. He stole a bit of parchment and an envelope from his bunkmate’s stationary box (who still had those nowadays?), got a pen from his own bag, and began to write.

_Dear Mr. Holmes (or should I call you Sherlock?),_

_Thank you for the interesting letter. To be honest, at first I thought you were a prick. I still think you are. But that doesn’t mean you’re a prick as a whole, if you know what I mean? Your thanks mean a lot to me. Lucky for you, my regiment is at a base right now awaiting our next mission, so I have a little time to reply without being shot before doing so._

_Regarding your history with drugs. You were wrong about me not caring or being understanding. My family has a history of substance abuse. My parents, for example. First, it was my father. When I was eight, he started having problems at work. At first he would drink a glass of wine or a bottle of beer every night to unwind from a stressful day. But then he started drinking more and more. Let’s just say that he wasn’t very pleasant when he was drunk off his ass. One night he was driving home and his car wrapped around a tree. Although he wasn’t nice when he drank, he was a good dad and husband when he was lucid; Mum was devastated. That was when she began drinking. When my sister came out as gay, my mum didn’t take it well with those traditional values and “I want grandchildren” and all that BS. She started rebelling and getting into Mum’s alcohol stash, and still has an alcohol problem to this day, as far as I know. Luckily, Mum got married again to a guy who takes care of her, but both of them got pissed at me when I enlisted. As you can see, I have a pretty fucked up family, and I just hope to God that I’m won’t get caught up in that fuckery. Well, I say that, but here I am getting shot at in Afghanistan…_

_You can call yourself a high-functioning sociopath to get through your days as—what is the term—consulting detective. (Interesting job though, you should tell me more.) But I can tell that you_ feel. _And you compartmentalize those hated emotions. I’m not one to tell people what to do, but I know that doing so is unhealthy for the mental state. Or something. If you can’t talk to anyone back in London, then you can write to me. Hopefully I’m not too boring for your genius, and hopefully I don’t get blown up in this hellhole._

_Thank you for your genuine gratitude, and I’m glad I could be of some use. You can write to me directly at this address:_

75839203, Captain John Watson

Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers

Operation Herrick

BFPO 758

_Sincerely,_

_John Watson_

 

                John sighed and put down his pen. Resolutely, he stuffed the letter into the envelope and wrote Holmes’ address on the front. Then, stretching as he went, he left his bunk to go to the postal office room.

                “Hey, Jack, a letter to London,” John called out as he strode into the room, handing the envelope to the man who was sitting at the desk.

                “Oh, for a lady at home? Or family?” Jack replied, glancing up from where he was scribbling his signature on a large stack of forms.

                “Nah, some random stranger with the weirdest name,” replied the captain, already turning around to leave the room for the mess hall. 

                 Jack shrugged and tossed the letter into the box labeled “Outgoing- Great Britain.”


	3. Don't Forget About Christmas Dinner

                Sherlock lay on the sofa, idly plucking his violin. There were no interesting cases to solve.  It was as if all the criminals in England were taking a holiday. Needless to say, he was bored. Very bored.

                Suddenly, there were three knocks against the door downstairs. Sherlock’s lip curled derisively. _Of course, it’s him,_ he thought. _He always prefers to use the knocker even though there’s a doorbell. Old-fashioned git._ He didn’t bother to move from the sofa; instead, he plucked “God Save the Queen” in time with the footsteps on the stairs coming up to his flat.

                Immediately after the door opened, Sherlock sneered, “Here to talk about Christmas dinner?”

                Mycroft tutted as he pushed the door closed with his umbrella. “You need to learn to respect your elders. And yes, Mummy insists. You don’t want to disappoint her again, don’t you? She’s been so pleased about your recovery. It’s best to at least show your face and reassure her about your state of health.” The man sank down onto the chair across from Sherlock and crossed his legs primly.

                “I assure you that my state of health will be much worse if I have to eat dinner with you,” Sherlock retorted, pizzicato dissolving into random notes. “Oh, look, I already feel a bit dizzy looking at you and your corpulence. How _is_ your diet going? After Christmas dinner, I doubt it’s even going to matter.”

                Mycroft pressed his lips together but didn’t rise to the bait. “Our parents are expecting us, which means you must go to dinner. I will say nothing more about this matter.” He ignored Sherlock’s snort and pulled out a letter from inside his suit jacket. “Now, would you like to tell me who ‘Captain John Watson’ is and why he sent you a letter from Afghanistan?”

                Sherlock stopped plucking his violin strings. It took him a moment to dig through his mind palace to remember the letter-writing incident from a month and a half ago. “I’m afraid it’s time for you to go away; I’m on a case.”

                “No, you’re not.”

Sherlock sighed. At least he tried. “Really, monitoring my mail, Mycroft? I’m sure you’ve already found all of his personal information,” the consulting detective shot back, but he sat up and snatched the letter from Mycroft’s hand.

                The government official said nothing, only looking at him condescendingly. He stood up and grabbed his umbrella. “I will only give you one warning. Don’t get attached.” Mycroft walked to the door and pulled it open. Before he stepped out, he called out, “And don’t forget about Christmas dinner,” and walked out. He didn’t bother to close the door behind him.

                Sherlock fumed for a bit before sliding off the sofa to close the door. _Annoying twat who puts his big nose into everyone’s business._ He then ripped open the envelope from “Captain John Watson” and scanned the letter.

_Left-handed from the slant of the handwriting. Slight scent of antiseptic—doctor, perhaps. Scrawl-y handwriting may support doctor hypothesis. Stop. Start reading._

                At first, Sherlock was apprehensive. He hadn’t meant to reveal so much about himself in his letter—to expose so many weaknesses to a stranger. But as he went through the letter, he realized that John Watson wasn’t exactly “normal” either. Addiction was clearly genetic in the captain’s family. Watson definitely had an addiction for adrenaline and danger; the man just didn’t realize it.

                A fellow addict, searching for the same rush—the same high.

                Sherlock finally got down to the part where Watson offered to be his sounding board if there was no one in London. He became puzzled. Why would a person offer help to a complete stranger? They didn’t even know what the other man looked like. Perhaps it was because of Watson’s doctoring urges. But considering his life story in the letter, the man should at least have some trust issues.

                _Wrong. Eagerness to share personal information about his family to a stranger contradicts trust issues._

_More information needed._

                Sherlock smirked. Life wasn’t so painfully boring after all. He stood up to dig out a clean piece of parchment and a pen from the stacks of papers on his desk. As he was walking, he noticed a tiny glint of light from the fireplace mantelpiece. Sherlock stopped, then turned his piercing gaze towards his skull, which lay on the ledge grinning back at him. Huffing, he stomped over and shoved his fingers roughly into the right eye socket, pulling out a small camera. He then dropped it onto the floor and brought his foot down onto the little, and no doubt expensive, piece of technology. Sherlock kicked the resulting fragments sloppily into the fireplace.

                “Well, that’s done. Stupid Mycroft,” the consulting detective muttered before walking back to his desk and beginning to write.

 

_Dear Captain Watson,_

_I have decided that you are interesting enough for me to reply to your letter. Besides, there’s absolutely nothing to do right now. Have all criminals decided to take a break for Christmas? Go home to their families and use shady money to cook up a nice meal and buy presents? The world will never know. But because of that, I am extremely bored right now, and it makes me want to rip my hair out._

_You wanted to know more about my occupation. I’m a consulting detective. As I said before, I’m the only one in the world. I invented the job. Whenever the police are out of their depth—which is always—they consult me. Most of the time, I work for Scotland Yard, but I take private clients as well…if their cases are interesting enough. I specialize in noticing the details everyone else misses; I see where others only look. I can make rapid-fire deductions and solve cases faster than an entire police detective unit. For example, I know from your letter that you’re left handed and an army doctor. You’re also an adrenaline junkie. Addiction is genetic in your family, unfortunately, and you didn’t miss out. Smudging of the ink on the parchment shows that either you’re careless, or you’re not familiar with using fountain pens. I believe it’s the latter, because I can see you’ve taken pains to neaten the stereotypical “doctor’s scrawl.” Therefore, the parchment and pen you used to write your letter are not yours, but they’re most likely a bunk mate’s._

_One thing I can’t understand about you is why you would be willing to help a complete stranger and tell him personal information about your family._

_No one has ever done that for me before._

_Anyways, not only have you caught my interest, but you’ve caught my brother’s as well. He must think it suspicious that I’m getting a letter from a stranger, because that usually only happens with criminals. He’s probably dug up everything about you, but don’t worry, he’s probably too busy with his work to pay too much attention to you. Besides, he already spends way too much watching over my every move. He’s such a git and can’t mind his own damn business. Today he came to my flat and demanded that I go to Christmas dinner at our parent’s house, and he used my mother’s feelings as a persuasive device. The idea of spending an entire day and night with him is revolting; I don’t know how I survived when we were children._

_Regarding Christmas, I hope you don’t get blown up wherever you are. Otherwise, there isn’t much you’re missing out in London during the holiday. After all, even the criminals are laying low._

 

 

_Sincerely,_

_Sherlock Holmes_


	4. Just From a Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas has passed, and John replies to Sherlock's second letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is so late! I've been extremely busy with school. I'm also sorry if there are any errors in this chapter; I rushed to write and post it. I think you'll probably have to wait again after this chapter...again, I'm so sorry, but please bear with me!

                John sighed. Another Christmas had come and gone. An influx of letters and goodies from mostly children came in, the same as every year before this one—all messages of “thanks for your service” and “Happy Christmas” in endearingly nearly-illegible handwriting. An influx of letters, but none John actually wanted to see.

                “Oi, Watson, why the long face? Cheer up, it’s the holiday season.” Bill Murray, one of John’s closest friends, slid next to him at the canteen table. “What’s got you down?”

                “Isn’t it obvious? It’s the holiday and they’re still giving us this swill they call food.”

                Bill grunted in agreement. “Fair enough,” he said before shoving a spoonful of lumpy, probably-instant mashed potatoes into his mouth and scrunching his face. “At least it’s better than normal.”

                John merely raised his eyebrows, finally eating some of his dinner. They sat in a comfortable silence, thoughts of what they could have been doing drifting through their heads but going unsaid. After all, neither man really liked the life they left behind back in England.

                After finishing their meal, the two men joined a poker game at a nearby table, playing a few rounds and betting a few coins. Eventually, John got tired and decided to leave Bill to continue soundly beating everyone else.  Just as he passed the postal office room, a voice called his name.

                “Hey, John Watson! You’ve got a letter here waiting for you.” Jack waved a piece of mail at him from behind his desk. As John walked over to retrieve it, Jack commented, “Thought you didn’t know this ‘Sherlock Holmes’ bloke.”

                John just shrugged. “Still don’t know him. But he’s strange and interesting to talk to. Takes my mind off things, y’know?”

                “Yeah, I get that. We all need distractions, sometimes, in this place.” Jack sighed, then shook his head, as if he were trying to banish any negative thoughts. “By the way, was dinner any better than usual?”

                “Nah. Actually, a bit, but not much.”

                “Damn. Well, happy holidays to you.”

                “Ta, and same to you, mate.”

                 John smiled and went back to his bunk, finally able to read the letter he was increasingly itching to open.

_“Dear Captain Watson,_

_I have decided that you are interesting enough for me to reply to your letter.”_

                 Well, that was nice of this Sherlock Holmes.

_“I can make rapid-fire deductions and solve cases faster than an entire police detective unit. For example, I know from your letter that you’re left handed and an army doctor. You’re also an adrenaline junkie. Addiction is genetic in your family, unfortunately, and you didn’t miss out. Smudging of the ink on the parchment shows that either you’re careless, or you’re not familiar with using fountain pens. I believe it’s the latter, because I can see you’ve taken pains to neaten the stereotypical ‘doctor’s scrawl.’ Therefore, the parchment and pen you used to write your letter are not yours, but they’re most likely a bunk mate’s.”_

                “Amazing,” whispered John to himself. “He found all that out just from a letter.” He wasn’t sure about the “adrenaline junkie” part, but he was impressed by the rest of the deduction. But as he read the next two lines, his amazement sobered into a mixture of pity and sadness for Sherlock Holmes, a man who seemed like a fairly lonely bloke.

_“One thing I can’t understand about you is why you would be willing to help a complete stranger and tell him personal information about your family._

_No one has ever done that for me before.”_

                After finishing Sherlock’s letter, John immediately fished out a piece of parchment and a pen from his belongings (he had asked Alan, his bunkmate with that stationery box, for some supplies) and began writing a reply.

 

_Dear Mr. Holmes,_

_You can just call me John. Anyways, happy holidays to you, too. I hope you weren’t too bored._

_First things first, I just wanted to say that your deduction thing was brilliant. It was absolutely amazing. I can’t believe you got all that just from looking at my letter. I don’t really know about the “adrenaline junkie” statement but everything else was spot on. In the next letter you’ll probably tell me what I had for dinner or something (assuming you still find me “interesting” enough to send me a reply)._

_Speaking of dinners, I hope you did eventually go to that family dinner of yours. It seems like your family really cares for you. Even if your brother is really strange, seems a bit creepy, and annoys you. I’m guessing that’s just his way of showing his affection for you. Either way, your dinner was probably a lot better than mine, and I think good food’s a good-enough reason to go to one after eating all this canteen junk._

_Regarding why I would help a “complete stranger” and tell him “personal information about my family,” truthfully, I don’t really know. I could say something like, “Oh, it’s the nice thing to do” but that doesn’t really explain much, does it? I guess I just empathized with you, you know? Since, according to you, I’m an addict as well, and I’ve had experience with addicts, so I know what you’re going through. Kind of. Why not help a person who’s going through a similar problem you dealt with before? I don’t know if that makes much sense. I hope I at least helped a bit in solving your problems._

_My unit will be sent on a mission in three days, so for lack of anything else to talk about, tell me more about yourself. What do you do besides detective work? What are your hobbies? Hopefully I’ll get your reply by the time the mission is over._

_Sincerely,_

_John Watson_

                John put down his pen and sighed. The letter felt a bit short, but he didn’t know what else to write about. Also, thinking about the next mission made him feel a bit nervous since it was the biggest one his unit was assigned to yet. _I hope it won’t be too bad,_ he thought as he folded up his letter and placed it in an envelope. He left the piece of mail on top of his bag so that he would remember to give it to Jack in the morning, but the rest of his thoughts that night were focused only on what would happen in three days’ time.


	5. Still As Immature As Ever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, thank you very much for being so patient! I know this chapter is a little short, but I'll try to make up for it by writing more. Since it's summer, I hope I can update more often! But I can't promise I will, because I need to prepare for college. 
> 
> Sorry, it's a busy time for me. 
> 
> But please enjoy! And again, thanks for the support!

                "Please pass the gravy, Mike," Violet "Mummy" Holmes told her eldest son. Oh, how both her sons had grown! Mycroft was making his way up in the government ranks, and Sherlock, oh Sherlock. He was still recovering from his addiction, but she could see that he was getting better. The crazed gleam in his eyes was gone, replaced with his trademark spark of intelligence and sharp wit. And now he was helping the New Scotland Yard solve cases. Ah, she was so proud of them both, all grown up…but still as immature as ever.

                "Mummy, for the umpteenth time, say my name properly! What was the point of naming me Mycroft when all you use is a bastardized nickname to address me?" Mycroft huffed while passing the festive gravy boat to his mother. Sherlock sniggered behind his glass of sparkling cider, ignoring the glare from his brother.

                The Holmes matriarch sighed. "Let an old woman be affectionate, hmm? It's Christmas dinner, and I hardly see you boys much anymore." But she could see she was being ignored, as her sons began subtly fighting over the last mini mince pie. (Sherlock was stealing it just to spite Mycroft even though he was too full to eat. After watching those two for so many years, Mummy Holmes knew exactly what was going on.)

                After the brief scuffle, with Sherlock emerging triumphant and nibbling on the pie, Mycroft turned to his mother. "Mum, did you know that Sherlock began corresponding with a so-called 'pen pal'? Apparently he is a soldier stationed in Afghanistan."

                Now it was Sherlock's turn to glare at his insufferable brother, mince pie forgotten on his plate.

                "Why Sherlock, how nice! Is he a good man? What is his name? I'm so glad you're making friends," Violet gushed at her youngest.

                Sherlock pouted, sulking at his brother's dirty revenge attack for taking the last pie. It wasn't Sherlock's fault that Mycroft was too slow.  "He's a captain in the army, named John Watson. He's strange and not like other people. I'm only writing to him because I'm bored."

                Violet tutted. "Well, I'm sure you must find him very interesting, otherwise you wouldn't be writing him, hmm?" Sherlock only looked away, making his mother smile. _Ah, boys,_ she thought. _Now, it's time to give them their presents._ "Siger? Wake up, dear. I know you're tired, but it's not polite to sleep at the dinner table. Now, why don't you be a darling and go fetch Mike's and Sherlock's gifts? I think they'll like them a lot this year."

                Siger smiled lovingly at his wife, still slightly drowsy, and stood up to do her bidding while Violet and the boys cleared the table. (Mycroft was complaining once more about his nickname.) He took two festively-wrapped boxes from under the small Christmas tree and made his way back to the dining room. He and Violet placed the boxes in front of their sons. _All grown up,_ Siger thought fondly.

                "Merry Christmas, boys."

 

*******

 

_Dear John,_

_If you insist on me calling you by your name, then call me Sherlock. Formalities are trivial and unnecessary things ._

_You_ are _an adrenaline junkie. I'm always right about these things, so just accept it._

_You needn't worry about my Christmas dinner. I went, and it was horrible as usual because of my annoying brother. But my mother gave me a Belstaff coat for my present. It's long and seems overly dramatic…but I may like it. Maybe._

_You said you wanted to know more about me. Besides helping incompetent people at New Scotland Yard, I also do some private investigating if clients have interesting requests. I like performing scientific experiments, both at St. Bart's and in my kitchen, though the landlord doesn't know about that. I also play the violin when I'm thinking. Is this enough? Perhaps you should give me some personal details in return for me telling you all of this._

_I hope your mission goes well. For lack of better words, don't die._

_Sincerely,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

_P.S. Thank you._

 

*******

 

                 Sherlock glanced at the long, navy coat that hung on his door. He allowed himself a small smile before folding and sliding his letter into an envelope.  _I'll send this tomorrow morning,_ he thought, and prepared for bed.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also sorry for any OOC-ness.


End file.
